What the Bungalow Brings
by Harlow
Summary: When Phoebe grows bored of her rich boyfriend, Lorenzo, a mystery guy from coffee shop may just be her ticket to a much more interesting future. Meanwhile, Helga is trying to find a reason to stay with Arnold, a person she finds more and more disagreeable
1. One: Orchid, the Eventual Dying

**The Bungalow**

By Harlow

One: Orchid, the Eventual Dying

The Bungalow was packed that night. People occupied every overstuffed chintz armchair or other suitable surface available. Mugs littered every square inch of the dozens of circular coffee tables, the steam rising up in wispy wafts, mixing with the cigarette smoke of the Bungalow's trendy denizens and shrouding the tiny coffee shop in opaque, jazzy mystery.

Aided by the music of Louis Armstrong wailing through the café, and the various, loud conversations spouted by every customer she passed, Phoebe Heyerdahl felt a migraine coming on. With a tray of mocha lattes in one hand, and a rich boyfriend desperately grabbing at her other, Phoebe was trying her hardest not to reenact Mount St. Helens.

"I just need to talk to you. Two seconds. That's it," Lorenzo swore, his Hispanic accent thicker and more desperate than usual as he trailed her through a maze of post-modern, artsy types—typical clientele at the Bungalow. The kind that annoyed Phoebe the most. Almost as much as an irritatingly persistent boyfriend.

Phoebe shot Lorenzo a look that sternly told him to hold on for one goddamned minute, then turned around towards a blob of wannabe avant-gardes, setting their drinks down before them. They all looked around her age, and quite indistinguishable in their varying shades of black clothing. They didn't even stop their poorly-contrived conversation regarding the many contradictions of human existentialism to pay her for the lattes and tip her an oh-so-generous fifty cents.

Phoebe swore acidly under her breath.

Lorenzo's Gucci cologne suddenly swallowed her whole, engulfing her in a thick blanket of expensive taste, as she remembered his presence behind her (she often forgot these days). Phoebe whipped around, fixing him with a tired expression.

"Enz, I'm busy. It's Saturday night. You're not supposed to be up here when I'm working," Phoebe began, trying to scoot past him, which was near impossible unless she felt like using a few hippies as hurdles. Phoebe almost considered it, but snapped back into reality and faced Lorenzo again.

"I know, I know," Lorenzo replied, grabbing at her hand a second time, gripping it firmly like he believed she'd disappear forever if he let go. It was then that Phoebe's dark eyes locked on a bouquet of yellow orchids Lorenzo held at his side, the blossoms bursting out wildly, revealing teardrops of pink in their middles.

"Ahh, now she notices," Lorenzo said, grinning broadly, and Phoebe studied him critically for the first time since he showed up at her work, suddenly remembering how good-looking her boyfriend truly was. His dark brown hair was longish and slightly wavy, curling around the nape of his neck, falling, always, into his large brown eyes. His lips were full and blush-colored, looking almost scandalous and often leaving Phoebe to wonder if maybe he had just kissed somebody moments before, which was ridiculous. Lorenzo wasn't nearly daring enough to even contemplate an affair.

Lorenzo grandiosely presented Phoebe with the orchids and kissed her affectionately atop her head, which he had to bend to accomplish considering his tall stature contrasting greatly to her petite one. Phoebe took the orchids, dazed. This was so unlike him. Phoebe let go of Lorenzo's hand to adjust her blue-rimmed glasses. She racked a nervous hand through her short, choppy black hair. She was flattered and mystified, but more confused than anything. Finally,

"What's the occasion?"

Now it was Lorenzo's turn to look incredulous. He stared down at Phoebe's small frame, unbelieving. Phoebe already knew she'd screwed up, but couldn't figure out how. Stuck in the middle of this crowd with no way out, a dizziness set over her that could have been attributed to the smoke, the overwhelming smell of coffee brewing, her ever-increasing headache. But Phoebe reasoned it was something else, and a dread grew cancerously inside her stomach as she realized Lorenzo was dressed up tonight—in a freaking Armani suit no less. His hair was styled just a little different, also uncharacteristic of his normally uniform sense of doing just about everything, including his hair.

Trying to redeem herself, Phoebe began to stutter. "I mean, they're really beautiful, Lorenzo, but you didn't have to come all the way up here. I—I'm off at twelve, and—"

"Forget it," Lorenzo cut her off sharply, his voice abrupt and hollow. Avoiding her eyes, he slumped his broad shoulders inward with a deep sigh. Phoebe was reminded of how the orchids she held in her hand would look tomorrow morning: withered, resigned.

"Look, I'll call you the minute I'm out of here," Phoebe began again, trying to catch his noncommittal gaze, but he adamantly fixed his eyes on the large-paned window towards the front of the Bungalow, the one that captured a bustling snapshot of the city outside. She touched his chest gingerly, still racking her brain, trying to figure out what made tonight of all nights so special.

"I said forget it, Phoebe," Lorenzo reiterated, his voice low though not at all threatening. Lorenzo had never radiated even the tiniest bit of anger or violence towards Phoebe. Shrugging her hand away, he turned around quickly. "I'll see you…" And letting the words hang, he shoved—forcefully, Phoebe thought—through the throngs of beatniks, his shoulders still edging forward and his hands hanging heavily in his pockets.

Though bafflement reigned, an internal bashing began in Phoebe's mind, screaming at her to run after Lorenzo and see what the hell was going on. Ungluing her feet from the Oriental rug below her, Phoebe was about to do just that when she remembered where she was—work, and standing amidst dozens of customers that were complaining loudly about needing refills, dropping obnoxious hints in her direction.

Flustered, Phoebe blushed in spite of herself, hurrying back up to the front counter where Helga was desperately trying to make at least five different drinks simultaneously.

"Pheebs!" she called, her hazel eyes a mixture of anger and anxiousness. "Crimminy, a little help here? Two café espressos with soy milk stat!"

Mechanically, Phoebe began filling the orders with the experience of a true coffee guru. In under a minute, she'd already made what Helga had asked for and began taking the next three orders while Helga finished up the rest. With the two of them working together, the place ran like clockwork, but Helga had only been working at the Bungalow for a few months whereas Phoebe had been there a little under two years, so if Phoebe left Helga for more than a few minutes, some sort of problem was bound to arise.

In all the chaos and confusion, Phoebe had discarded the orchids on the counter.

When the rush finally died, and the last of the customers finally trickled out of the café, Phoebe and Helga sat themselves at a small round table by the register to take a quick break before closing up for the night. Phoebe sipped from a mug of green tea while Helga downed a double espresso thanks to another sleepless night. Helga began recalling the past night right away, undoing her ponytail and letting her long blonde hair fall down her back. Of course, it concerned another long talk with Arnold. As of late, Helga was having doubts about the validity or future existence of their relationship.

"Again and again he tries to explain it to me," Helga pontificated, including in the spiel her standard wild gestures and melodramatic facial expressions. Phoebe couldn't help but crack a small smile. Helga soldiered on. "It's reasons why we should be together, but for every reason he comes up with, I can find ten why we shouldn't. I've tried telling him, but it's like his ears just close up. Stupid football head…" Helga crossed her thin arms under her chest. Over the years, she hadn't developed much except to grow far taller. Long-limbed and with little curves to speak of, Phoebe and Rhonda had begged Helga time and time again to go to some agency. With her good looks and body figure, she could easily get a modeling job and be making three times the money she would make at Bungalow. Helga never listened to a word of it.

There's one thing they have in common, Phoebe thought amusedly. They're both so damn stubborn.

Helga talked on and Phoebe listened mostly in silence, much as she always had as Helga's friend all these years. Helga more or less finished her rant as Phoebe took a final draught on her green tea, the last gulp a little colder than lukewarm as it swilled down her throat.

"It's obvious you guys have too long of a history to just end things," Phoebe told her friend, resting her elbows on the table and putting her hands together like a steeple. Her voice was quieter, more timid than Helga's, but it still held a powerful force that made most listen to her. "Then again, you're drifting apart. You're getting older. You're changing. But that's all natural. However, you said yourself that you and Arnold aren't officially together right now,"—Helga and Arnold were always an on-off affair—"so you want my advise? Trying dating somebody new." Phoebe grinned at Helga, a smile that bordered on mischievous, as she looked squarely at her friend over the brim of her glasses. "A new romantic rendezvous might just give you a little insight, let you see your relationship with Arnold through a more objective point of view."

Helga thought this over, a bemused smile dancing on her lips. "It's possible, but Pheebs, I haven't dated anybody but the football head in over a year."

"Perhaps that's your problem."

Helga laughed. "Maybe you're right. I need a break from him anyway," she added, rubbing her temples in vexation. "A little too much drama for this Pataki." Helga sighed and stood up, pushing the sleeves of her shirt up to her elbows and grabbing a broom leaning against the wall and began sweeping up. "Ever thought of starting a 'Dear Phoebe' column?" Helga joked, looking down at the tiled ground as she swept together small piles of biscotti crumbs and wadded up straw wrappers. "You're right though, like always. It's no wonder you and Lorenzo are so perfect. I can't believe you two have been together for a year."

Phoebe started violently, almost knocking over her chair as she stood up. Her eyes widened.

"Christ, Phoebe, what is it?" Helga demanded, dropping the broom and staring at her friend in transfixed worry.

"Shit," was all Phoebe could say, her voice barely above a whisper as she walked around the table and headed towards the back of the café. Helga followed right in her wake as Phoebe continued to mutter expletives.

"Pheebs, don't tell me you didn't know," Helga said as Phoebe grabbed her purse and coat out of the small, coat-closet employee room.

"No, no I didn't know," Phoebe hissed. "That's why he came here today." Phoebe threw her hands up in frustration, grabbing chunks of her short black hair and pulling. "Dammit, Helga. He was so hurt. I knew there was something wrong. He was all dressed up, and smelling nice and the flowers—shit! The flowers!" Phoebe hurried back up to the front counter and spotted the orchids on the counter, already wilting and losing life. Somehow they didn't seem as yellow as before. She grabbed them up, feeling more wretched by the second as she cradled them to her chest.

Helga walked out of the employee room, an uncertain expression on her face. "Crimminy, Phoebe. I was positive you knew. I mean, Lorenzo was talking to everybody about it for weeks, but you know him. He didn't have any idea what he could do for you." Helga chuckled, trying her best to make light of the situation. "I mean, the guy had to come to me for help."

Phoebe raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Well, last week he came over when you were out getting groceries. The guy was a nervous wreck, Pheebs. He wanted to do something special for your one-year anniversary, but couldn't think of anything that would be good enough—" Phoebe looked down at the orchids while Helga continued—"so I suggested he buy you orchids—your favorite—surprise you at work, take you out for a picnic at midnight…you know, that kind of romantic crap." Helga leaned against the counter, biting her bottom lip, shifting around uncomfortably. She wasn't used to Phoebe behaving so emotionally as she had moments before.

Suddenly, and for reasons she couldn't entirely pinpoint, Phoebe felt incredibly annoyed. She knew Lorenzo showing up at her work out of the blue had seemed strange, but the orchids and wearing a suit without occasion were downright weird, and disturbingly unlike any side of her boyfriend Phoebe had ever seen. The guy was too predictable, too schedule-oriented. Phoebe loved him to death. He was a great guy…just a great guy with a scary love for routine. Lately, Phoebe realized, his atypical behavior bothered her more and more, causing her to distance herself from Lorenzo. In the past few weeks, Phoebe had caught herself forgetting she even had a boyfriend, going as far as flirting shamelessly with guys at work. It was a wonder she remembered Lorenzo's last name, let alone their anniversary.

Tonight, Phoebe had nearly fallen in love with the guy all over again, surprising her like that had been so unprecedented, but to find out it was all a plan, and not even one devised by Lorenzo himself, dissolved all feelings the feelings Phoebe once had for him. Suddenly, Phoebe wondered what she'd ever seen in the guy to begin with. He was rich, which certainly wasn't a bad thing, but Phoebe would never be with somebody for that shallow of a reason. He was dependable, trust-worthy, not too bad in bed…but it was all the same, day after day. Phoebe could count on Lorenzo never leaving her, never betraying her—that went without saying—but in the meantime, what could she expect from him? He was a safeguard against disappoint, but Phoebe was growing tired of it. She was bored, plain and simple.

Looking disgustedly at the orchids now, Phoebe went over to the trashcan in the corner, lifting the lid and tossing the yellow beauties into its depths with flourish.

"Pheebs, what's your deal?" Helga asked. "Is he mad at you or what? Are you fighting?"

Phoebe turned to Helga and shook her head, grimacing. "No, Helga, because if we were, I sure as hell wouldn't be ending things with him tonight."

Helga merely gaped after her friend like a carp out of water, while Phoebe stacked chairs atop tables, whistling in time to the somber blues that played throughout the Bungalow.


	2. Two: Crash into Me

**What the Bungalow Brings**

**By Harlow**

Two: Crash into Me

A semi-dark morning greeted Helga as she walked out of the bathroom, yawning and tasting the spearmint over her newly brushed teeth. Stretching exaggeratedly, Helga sighed loud and long. Sitting down on the futon, which also served as the couch, she looked at the television. It had been left on from the night before. The news blared silently, probably waiting to tell her something she didn't want to hear.

The large window of the studio-apartment showed another red brick building a few feet from her apartment that she shared with  
Phoebe and Rhonda, mirrored by another large window covered discreetly with awful flower-print curtains. Up past the building, Helga could barely glimpse a grey sliver of sky.

"Rain," Helga remarked to herself dismissively. Didn't matterto her. She'd planned to stay inside all day anyway.

Feeling more comfortable by the second, Helga stretched out on the futon, pulling an Indian-print blanket over her lithe frame, which  
was covered in little more than a blue button-up oxford, compliments of Arnold. Her long blonde hair was a mess and could do with a wash, but with the morning came a lack of initiative. The only thing Helga wanted to do right now was chill out, maybe have a smoke.

Getting up with a groan and discarding the blanket, Helga crossed over to the large window to open it a crack. The wind whistled outside—it couldn't have been more than forty degrees—and it bit into Helga's flesh, eliciting unwanted goose bumps, and causing the oxford to flutter around her thighs. Shivering involuntarily, Helga grabbed her pack of cigarettes off the coffee table and lit one lazily,  
inhaling long and easy. She leaned against the wall, staring for a moment into the depths of the dark alleyway below and then returning her gaze to the apartment.

Helga had inhabited the place first. Her inevitable road to the top of the GPA ladder in high school had received at least a little  
recognition from her parents. Her older sister, Olga, unfortunately,had done far better in college than Helga would have liked. Always in the limelight, Olga had gained most of the praise and, worse still, most of the money from Helga's parents. Already saving up to get through a mere community college, Helga had wanted nothing more than to move out of her house the moment high school ended. Unfettered at the prospect of paying for college, Helga didn't know how she'd pay for an apartment as well until Olga became her ultimate tool.

Because the dorms at Olga's pricy little private school had run a bit steep in the Pataki check book, Helga had suggested to her impressionable father that sharing an apartment with her dearest sister would prove both cheap and practical—killing two birds with one stone, as Big Bob Pataki liked to say to his daughters at least twice a day.

Keen to the idea, Helga's father had consented, putting six months rent on a studio downtown. Unknown to Bob, Olga was, of course, dating another handsome fraud, determined to sweep her off her feet. Helga, the master at convincing anyone of anything, concluded that Olga was in love and she should get married at once. This sort of thing had happened before, and Helga had stupidly backed out, getting rid of Olga's pseudo-suitor because of what she supposed must have been a guilty conscience. But when faced with the prospect of living on her own, and eliminating Olga from her future entirely, Helga just couldn't pass up that opportunity—not again. With stars in her older sister's eyes, and more naïve that Helga could stomach, Olga had eloped with her deadbeat boyfriend.

Two years later, and all Helga had was one postcard. Apparently, the girl was still happy. Helga wondered if it would last.

Since she couldn't very well live by herself (an irrational fear that Helga admitted to little), especially after the six months was up, Helga decided a roommate would be a good idea. Phoebe, also starting college and, craving a little liberation, moved in less than a month after Helga. She already had a small scholarship for college, and more than enough money in the bank. Also a genius with numbers, the girl still managed their checkbook and expenses, keeping them on top of rent.

Rhonda moved in last, which took a lot of convincing for both Phoebe and Helga. Still living up the rich image, Rhonda Wellington  
Lloyd couldn't fathom living away from a place where cricket, caviar, and credit cards were available at the snap of her fingers, but Helga and Phoebe realized that money would be much less tight if they had a third income, and Rhonda was the only likely candidate, making a nice little sum at a boutique on Main Street.

What eventually pushed Rhonda to move out at last was her parents' despicable racism against her boyfriend, the city's young and  
upcoming African-American golf player, Gerald Johaansen. Before the summer after high school was out, Rhonda had showed up at the girls' apartment with no less than seven bags, a baggie filled with cut-up credit card chips, and a ransom in caviar.

Helga finished her cigarette, wandering into the kitchen with her stomach gnawing. Pouring herself a bowl of sugary cereal, Helga  
noticed the note on the fridge while pulling out the milk:

OUT WITH GERALD. BE BACK LATE TONIGHT. –R

Helga smiled to herself, wondering what the unlikely couple were up to. Maybe at a golf tournament. Everyone in Helga's circle of friends marveled to that day at the relationship somehow formed between prissy Rhonda and laid-back Gerald. In high school, Gerald had exhibited an unforeseen, but amazing talent at golf. Helga always joked that he was the next Tiger Woods, except smoother with the words and the ladies. Soon, Gerald was asked to play at an upscale country club that Rhonda and the Lloyds often frequented. With more alone time between them, Rhonda and Gerald had somehow clicked during their time at the club, and began dating during senior year against the Lloyd's bigoted wishes.

"So it's just me today," Helga said aloud, liking the sound of her voice when only she could hear it. Having worked all week at the  
Bungalow, Helga was grateful for a day off. It was Sunday morning, and for some reason Phoebe still wasn't home. She said things were over between her and Lorenzo, but Helga couldn't picture it. Plus, if she wasn't home by now, surely she'd spent the night at his loft down on Fifth Street. Helga smirked in satisfaction. The two of them breaking up was ridiculous, and Helga quickly pushed the idea into the back recesses of her mind.

Finishing her cereal, Helga briefly contemplated taking a quick mid-morning nap and then doing some kickboxing at the gym. She was still a bit tired. After work last night, she'd gone over to the boys' apartment, which was just down the hall from their own, a regular bachelor pad shared by Arnold, Gerald, and Sid—minus the bachelor part. Arnold had actually been at work, which was something of a relief to Helga. Being around him too much was starting to get to her. Part of her wanted to break up, but he wouldn't listen. He never did when it came to matters like that. Instead, Helga had played darts and cards with Gerald and Sid—drinking beer and wasting time, not admitting that she didn't want to go home to an empty, dark apartment.

Finally, Rhonda had shown up and the girls headed home to catch some sleep. Now she was all alone and ready for a well-needed nap.

Yawning at the prospect, Helga was about to retreat to the futon when a knock on the door stopped her short, her face nearly colliding with the wooden floor thanks to the stockings on her feet.

She knew the knock from anywhere.

"Whaddaya want, geek-bait?" Helga called from her side of the door, leaning languidly against its frame. "You almost made me break my lumbago over here."

Arnold said nothing from the other side, just knocked again.

"Oh ho, the silent treatment, eh?" Helga replied to his second knock, smirking. She unlocked the door and started to open it slowly  
while saying, "You'll talk eventually. As soon as I get my hands on you, I'll—" but Helga was unable to say exactly what she would do to Arnold because as soon as the door was open, a set of lips were pressed firmly against her own, the door thrown open with careless regard. Two strong arms wrapped around her small waist, and a body pushed robustly against hers. Arnold's.

Well, well. What a surprise.

With as much grace as a bull elephant, but no less effective, Arnold kicked the door closed and continued kissing Helga fervently. Helga, in turn, responded immediately, her lips parting and her tongue darting out in search of his.

Grazing ears with teeth. Feverish sighs. Biting lips. Fumbling hands.

The two seemed to dance in a mad, off-balance fashion with Arnold in the lead, still pressing his body against hers, heat emanating off one another as he pushed Helga towards what she'd guess was the kitchen judging by the cold tile suddenly seeping through the thin material of her patterned thigh-highs. Swiftly, Arnold grabbed Helga by her hips and lifted her onto the countertop, knocking over the box of cereal in the process. Sugarcoated Os scattered all across the tile, sounding to Helga like a short, wild rain shower.

In sporadic bursts, Helga kissed Arnold all over his face, his neck, his chest—running her hands through his silky blonde hair while he undid the pearl snap buttons of his shirt—or rather, his shirt that occupied Helga—exposing her small, pert breasts. He massaged them eagerly with one hand while the other traveled down south spreading Helga's legs, which she wrapped agreeably around Arnold's waist.

Pants undone, zipper down. Arnold continued kissing Helga ardently as he grabbed her behind firmly and entered her fast and hard. The two rocked against the countertop, shaking the wall behind them, causing the pots and pans in the cupboard below to clink against one another in a violent clamor.

Some minutes later, the two collapsed against each other, absolutely spent and breathing like they'd been under water for far too long.

Chuckling, Arnold zipped up his pants, grabbing Helga's face between his hands and looking into her hazel eyes, his own so blue like cerulean waters under clear skies.

"Good morning to you too, darling," Helga greeted him through gasps of breath, pulling the blue oxford up around her shoulders and blinking rapidly in dazed surprise.

"Sorry, some things just can't wait," Arnold replied with that easy grin of his, eyes half-lidded like two calm fishbowls. Somehow, his breathing wasn't nearly as laborious. He kissed Helga on her brow and pushed off from the counter, standing up straight at an even six foot. Running a careless hand through his shaggy blonde hair, he studied Helga while she hopped off the counter, bits of cereal crunching beneath her stockinged feet. She buttoned the shirt back up, her own blonde hair contrasting brilliantly to the blue of the fabric.

Young adulthood served Arnold well. He'd kept his lanky form, filling out just enough to glimpse a smooth ripple of muscles beneath his jean jacket. The football shape of his head still remained, but wasn't as prominent, giving his face just enough attractive character, just enough sex appeal. The kind that drove Helga crazy.

"Thanks for the energy boost, Football Head," she purred, punching him playfully in the ribs and flouncing off to her room to get dressed. So much for a nap.

"I heard about Lorenzo and Phoebe," Arnold called from the kitchen as Helga pulled a shirt over her head followed by a maroon sweater that read FAIRVIEW COMMUNITY COLLEGE. She could hear him rummaging through the cupboards, then the fridge.

"Oh yeah?" she replied, using the small mirror above her dresser to rack a comb through her unkempt hair and quickly pluck a few stray eyebrow hairs, abolishing any notion of what was once a unibrow.

"Yeah, he told me about it in American Lit. He was really bummed out."

Confused, Helga walked out of her bedroom and stood in the kitchen. "Bummed out? I thought they made up last night."

Arnold shook his head slowly, popping the tab off a diet cola and taking a long swig. "No way. Lorenzo said Phoebe just stopped by his place, ended things in about three words, and then took off. Didn't say where. Wouldn't tell him." Arnold shrugged, taking another drink.

"Dammit," Helga cursed, her voice already edging an octave higher as worry settled thick over mind. "Arnold, Phoebe never came home last night. Where the hell could she be?"

Arnold raised his eyebrows in surprise; this was obviously news to him. "You got me." Seeing the anxiety in Helga's eyes, Arnold stepped closer to her, taking her hand. "Don't worry, Helga. I'm sure Pheebs is fine even though this is a little weird coming from her. She probably went over to Sheena's or something."

Helga nodded, but her thoughts were not thoroughly eased.

Arnold cupped Helga's chin, tipping it up and giving her a soft kiss on the lips. She responded, but not as warmly as usual. Helga was abruptly reminded of her situation with Arnold, of how he'd just come over for a few minutes of heaven, how that's just about all they did these days.

"I suppose this would be a bad time to talk about us?" Helga asked hopefully as she drew away from the kiss. Her cheeks still felt heated and flushed from their countertop rendezvous. She'd tried many tactics to bring this up, to end things somehow. When was the last time he'd caused a flush in her cheeks that wasn't credited to sex? Helga honestly couldn't remember.

With amazing speed and alacrity, Arnold was suddenly at the door, looking down at his watch. "What's there to talk about?" Typical Football Head response. "Look, I've got an afternoon class to catch, but meet me up at Greenwich Park later this evening. Gerald's having a small match, and he swears he'll lynch us all if we don't go. Later, Helga." And with a flash of teeth and a click of the door, he was gone.

Thwarted once again out of her plans to break-up with the supposed love of her life, Helga picked up the phone and began dialing Phoebe's cellphone number, ideas of infidelity and adventure racing back again, back again across her mind.


	3. Three: Reticent Words

**What the Bungalow Brings**

**By Harlow**

Three: Reticent Words

Ned's Copy Shop whirred away on Thrushcross Street, where copies were being made, beams of green Xeroxed across pages, and papers faxed in and out, in and out all day long.

Sid had his back to the customer—shoulders slumped—making faces to mimic the current idiot he had to deal with. Leaning a bit too heavily against the copier, Sid was creating and recreating two dozen glossy sheets of a horrendously ugly little runt of a dog that the customer – a suspiciously fruity man in a green suede jacket - continued to refer to as "my lovelykins." The papers continued to print out, each one more difficult to look at than the last.

"Don't you think that's my lovelykin's best angle?" the customer drawled on in a standard gay lisp, the words streaming out of his mouth in strings of proverbial taffy. Sid gathered up the last of the papers, knocked for a loop that he hadn't gone blind.

"I couldn't say. Camera angles really aren't my thing," Sid replied sarcastically, handing the glossed sheets over to Mr. Avocado and plastering on a wickedly fake grin.

"Oh, well then. What do I owe you?"

"Twenty-one, seventeen."

"That's a bit pricy, don't you think?"

"Only the best for your lovelykins, sir."

Finally catching on, the man huffily paid the price and sauntered out oft the copy shop, a new stick lodged firmly up his butt.

Snickering, Sid grabbed his open can of soda next to the register and took a long swig. The day was dragging by slower than molasses, but with only half an hour to go, Sid was getting antsy to leave. He had to make Gerald's tournament or there would be hell to pay.

Skinnier than a rock star on coke, Sid stood an average five foot eight and only topped in at around one-fifteen. His green eyes were large, almost too big for his thin, gaunt face. Having a big nose all his life, Sid had somewhat grown into it, even though it still hooked slightly, and he still remained secretly self-conscious about it. His black hair was cut more stylishly than usual these days—pseudo punishment from Rhonda, who worked at a hair salon three blocks south, and insisted that he start working on his "image." She had chopped it short in the back, leaving the bangs long to hang constantly over one eye like a dark, mod curtain. She assured him it was all the rage, so chic. To Sid, it was nothing but an annoyance. Humoring Rhonda, Sid had also taken to wearing tighter jeans, jazzy pearl-snap button shirts—the collar always flipped up, and a white studded belt.

Noting his appearance, Sid realized he probably looked about as queer as Mr. Avocado. The flawlessly white go-go boots didn't help his heterosexuality much either, but some things never changed.

With a practiced shake of his head, Sid flicked the stubborn hair out of his eyes (a habit he'd recently noticed that girls noticed, and so he had discreetly perfected the art.) Sid commenced on his chronic closing duties before Ned could waddle out from the back room and roar at him for slacking off. Ned was a big scary Cro-Magnon that nobody  
wanted to cross, Sid being no exception. However, he was convinced Ned wouldn't bother emerging from his lair any time soon. The man was, no doubt, too preoccupied with his vast array of downloaded porn.

Cleaning up around the shop took a good two minutes. That's what Sid enjoyed most about his job. Less people meant less work, and a crowd at a copy shop, especially in the seedier district of the city, was about  
as likely as Sid getting a raise.

That'd be the day, Sid thought dryly as he made his way around the counter to Ned's priced possession: the shop's own copier/laserjet printer hybrid. Ned never failed to remind Sid that Old Faithful (he'd taken to naming the machine after a geyser of all things) was worth more than Sid's entire existence. With only the push of a few buttons, Sid could scan whatever pictures he wanted, edit them to faultlessness on the touch-screen monitor provided, and print them out again and again and again.

With only fifteen minutes left till clock-out, Sid pulled a small photograph out of his back pocket, examining it thoughtfully before putting it facedown on the scanner. The familiar ribbon of emerald green streamed over the picture, illuminating Sid's waistline for only a moment in a perverse sort of limelight, before pulling up the photo on the monitor.

Sid smiled in satisfaction.

The picture was of Gerald and Rhonda, the two standing together on the green. Gerald was dressed to the nine-irons in goofy golf clothes, decked out in varying shades of pastels, a golf club held awkwardly in one white-gloved hand. Sid was certain Rhonda managed her boyfriend's attire considering her status as the unofficial wardrobe Nazi. Appropriately, Rhonda stood next to Gerald. A whole head shorter, Rhonda Wellington Lloyd was a beacon of pristine beauty, smiling a dazzling set of enamel pearls and wearing a green designer sundress that complimented her body perfectly. The two were holding hands, their fingers intertwined like stitches on a patchwork quilt.

Sid felt only a moment's stab of jealousy at the two's happiness. Their ritzy, upscale life.

Sid snorted. That's exactly what he needed. A few extra greenbacks. But Sid's optimism would have to skyrocket if he believed for even a moment that a behemoth like Ned would grant him another wrung up the corporate ladder. For now, he was stuck in a low-end job with a mediocre salary, making a stupid little gift for one of his best friends because he couldn't afford a real one. Hell, he could barely afford the rent he  
split with the guys.

Sighing, Sid finished souping up the picture, making everything about it so photogenic that it was almost unrealistic. The plastic couple. Rhonda and Gerald. Barbie and Ken.

Using a text tool on the monitor screen, Sid selected a fancy font and typed something out over the picture, the word hanging over the couple's head like an ominous charm. It looked hokey, and Sid was about to erase it and start over when the jangling of bells above the door sounded a customer's entrance.

Mentally grumbling, Sid turned around to face whoever couldn't wait until tomorrow to make a couple of goddamned copies right before the shop closed.

Eyes widened. Pulse quickened.

For a little over a moment, Sid's conviction that he was being robbed clutched at him like the force of a large hand over a soft, vulnerable neck. Two men stood before him—young men. They couldn't have been more than a few years older than Sid himself, but they were both big, much bigger than skinny Sid.

The two were tall and bulky. Real football, jock types. Except grungier, and both with an untamed hunger in their eyes that did not come from a want of tackling or scoring a goal.

The one in front stepped forward. He was the taller of the two, and possibly older, with dark, long brown hair that was tied back in a surprisingly neat ponytail. His eyes were an overcast grey that looked at Sid with a feral inquiry that Sid could not even begin to guess at. Also…something he couldn't quite place. Something like familiarity.

"Can uh—can I help you guys?" Sid finally stammered, shaking his head till his mind was back on track.

Suddenly, the man with the ponytail gave Sid a very dazzling smile, and though Sid could tell it wasn't entirely sincere, it could have convinced a lot of people. "Yeah," he replied. "Help is what I'm looking for, man. In fact, I'm going to need quite a bit of help. Care to hear a proposition?" The smile bloomed into a full-blown Cheshire grin as the man reached into his leather jacket.

Sid's stomach clenched and a wave of panic set in. A gun. There was a gun in his—

No. Sid immediately relaxed as the man pulled a twenty out of his jacket and placed it on the countertop. It was crisp and new like it was freshly ironed. Jackson looked solemnly up from his two-dimensional realm.

Confused, Sid looked from the bill back up to the man, the same feeling settling over him. That familiar feeling. Did he know this guy?

"So, you'd like to make a few copies of something?" Sid asked slowly, still trying to place that face, those eyes. The demeanor.

The man with the ponytail laughed good-naturedly. Sid was relaxing more and more. "Something like that," he replied, his grey eyes never leaving the twenty while he said it.

Ponytail guy's accomplice made no comments, no add-ins. Merely stood back near the door and waited with his arms crossed. Gruff elegance mixed with nonchalance. Sid gave him the eye, noting that he, too, looked unnaturally familiar.

"OK, so whaddaya want me to copy?" Sid asked, his voice bordering on annoyance, but not dabbling in it. He didn't want the shit beat out of him, but if this guy was going to play word games all night, Sid had better things to do.

"Allow me to explain," he said, and explain he did.

Some time later, Arnold stepped off the bus with his messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Class at Fairview had ended just in time for him to meet up with Sid at work and catch the bus over to Greenwich Park for Gerald's match.

It had been drizzling on and off all day, and a light veiled mist fell around Arnold as he walked with hunched shoulders and hands in pockets up to Ned's Copy Shop. Arnold was about to walk inside, prepared to spring Sid loose from Caveman Ned, but he stopped in front of the large front window, peering into the shop from outside.

Sid was behind the counter, grinning like a maniac and shaking the hand of a man whom Arnold could only glimpse at a quarter profile. He didn't recognize the guy though the way his skinny friend was acting, he'd guess it was Sid's new best friend. Next, he saw Sid take something off the counter and place it into an envelope, then put envelope in the breast pocket of his shirt.

Arnold noticed another man inside closer to the door, but because of the misty rain, the window was too foggy to make out his face. All he could glimpse was a shock of wild blonde hair and distorted facial features, like a real-life mosaic.

The other guy crossed over to the door to meet his blonde-haired companion and the two walked out of the shop, quickly turning the other way and walking down the street before Arnold could get a good look at either of them. All he saw was their retreating forms and an echo of fervent excited whispers. Arnold almost called out to them, almost told them to stop, hold on. Almost demanded to know who they were. But the moment passed and Arnold realized that was ridiculous. Just some last minute customers.

So why had Sid been so happy to see then?

Chewing meditatively on the inside of his cheek, Arnold entered Ned's Copy Shop, the bell above the door ringing its strangled, baby bird cry. Sid had his back turned, facing the copier, printing out something. He turned around at the sound of the door, a sullen expression etched into his face like he'd expected yet another customer to come and ruin his day. A grin crept onto his face though when he saw it was Arnold.

"What's up, man?" Sid asked, slapping fives with his friend. Arnold's gaze drifted to the paper Sid held clutched in his hand.

"Not much. What's that?"

"Oh." Sid looked down, messing up the back of his raven hair in what appeared to be a nervous gesture. "Just a little something for Gerald. You know, for the match." He slid it across the counter, crossing his arms.

Arnold studied the paper. On it was a picture of Gerald and Rhonda. Arnold remembered the picture from Gerald's nightstand in his room—one that was taken a few months ago at another golf club in some city up north. Above the picture was the word

CONGRATULATIONS

and below it:

SID

Arnold smiled his easy smile, looking up at Sid.

"You're pretty sure of Gerald's skills. He hasn't even played yet. How can you congratulate him?"

Sid shrugged. "The guy hasn't lost yet. Come on, Arnold. I thought you were the freaking optimist around here." Sid grinned again, going over to the wall by the door that led to the backroom. Behind it lurked Ned, who, judging by the muffled noises that sounded like steel grating against cinderblocks, was fast asleep. Sid pulled out his time card, punching out, and then heading back over to Arnold.

"Let's go, dude," Sid told him, the grin still on his face. "The rolling green and boring commentators await us."

"Alright," Arnold agreed, opening the glass door to be greeted by a blanket of humidity. The rain had stopped, encompassing the atmosphere in a sticky, stagnant web. As they walked down the street towards the bus stop, Arnold asked the question bothering him. "So, who were those guys I saw you talking to in the shop?"

Sid faltered for only a moment, his eyes registering a concealed motive he was deadset against revealing. Smoothly he replied, "Ah, just some customers." And, to change the subject slightly: "Weird thing is, they both looked so familiar. Maybe they went to P.S. 118…?"

Arnold nodded, his interest already waning. No big deal. Just some customers like he'd expected. Perhaps Sid was just incredibly good at faking the courtesy his job required.

The bus arrived and the two young men stepped aboard, their change clattering into the bus's dispenser. Diamonds cascading onto glass.


End file.
